


keep giving me hope for another day

by synchronysymphony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, food cw, phone fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 01:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: Even Combeferre has bad days sometimes.





	keep giving me hope for another day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bi_elric](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bi_elric/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARA ILY ♥︎☀︎

“Combeferre is having a bad day.”

At first, Grantaire isn’t sure he heard right. Combeferre doesn’t _get_ bad days. He’s immune to them, just like Eponine is immune to food poisoning, and Jehan is immune to criticisms of his fashion sense (or weird-ass rhyme schemes). Bad things just roll right off him, just another drop of water off the nerdy, bespectacled duck’s back. So,

“What do you mean?”

On the other end of the phone, Enjolras makes a squeaky little distressed sound. “It’s bad, R! He can’t get out of bed, and he won’t talk to anyone, not even me, and when I tried to make him eat something, he just flipped me off and rolled over in bed and ignored me. Usually, I would just climb in bed with him and help him wait for it to pass, but he has an important presentation at work tomorrow, so...”

He’s definitely wringing his hands together in that way that he does, and he sounds like he’s two steps from a panic attack himself, so Grantaire makes soothing noises like he’s calming a frightened animal, and tries to speak in a calm, level tone.

“Okay, okay. It’s okay, angel, we’ll figure this out. Let’s think it through. Do you know what prompted this?”

“No! He was okay yesterday, but then this morning, everything was just so bad!”

Clearly, Enjolras won’t be much help right now. Grantaire is going to have to calm him down first, and then they can tackle the real problem together. It’ll be fine to take the time to do that; it doesn’t sound like Combeferre is going anywhere. He makes his soothing sound again.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m coming over, okay? Can you meet me in the parking lot?”

“Yeah, but—”

“What’s up?”

“Is it really okay for me to just leave? What if he thinks I’m abandoning him?”

“Does he even know you’re at home?”

“Well, no, but...”

“Then, it’s okay. I’ll be there in ten.”

Enjolras hangs up the phone without saying goodbye, but this doesn’t mean anything; he genuinely thinks this is a good way to end a conversation, and no one can convince him otherwise. Grantaire chuckles to himself, thinking about how lucky he is to have such a cute boyfriend, and grabs his keys to head on over. Time for Dr. Grantaire to make a house call. 

—

“So, walk me through this,” Grantaire says, once he and Enjolras have ensconced themselves at their favorite booth at the Musain (the best place in all of Paris to talk about Serious Issues) and Musichetta has brought them some snacks. “What happened this week? Can you remember?”

Enjolras tries to speak around a mouthful of popcorn shrimp, realizes he can’t, and quickly washes it down with a swallow of Grantaire’s beer. (The combination is probably pretty delicious. Grantaire decides to try it as soon as he’s done with the particularly chewy piece of calamari that he’s eating)

“Um, let me think. So, I had class, and he had work, but nothing unusual happened. And then last night, Courfeyrac and Cosette came over, and we all hung out, and they slept over, so it was fun. I had a nightmare and woke everyone up, but it’s not like I told them what it was about, so it can’t be that— can it?”

“No,” Grantaire tells him immediately, knowing he’ll take any excuse to blame himself for the situation. “It’s not your fault, so don’t even think that. What happened today?”

“I woke up late today, and he was still in bed. I asked him if he was okay, and he just grumbled at me, so I made him some coffee, but he wouldn’t drink it. So I asked him if he called in sick to work, and he said it didn’t matter, so I called in for him— it’s okay, his supervisor is Dr. Fantine, so she understood— and then I asked him if he wanted to get up, but he wouldn’t. So I made some congee, and tried to get him to eat it, but he flipped me off. It was so surprising! He usually doesn’t do that.”

“That is odd,” Grantaire agrees. “He probably was feeling so awful that he thought he might as well push you away. But I’m guessing that didn’t work.”

“No, I just climbed in bed with him and stayed there until he fell asleep. Then I ate his congee so it wouldn’t go to waste. And then I called you.”

“I see.”

Grantaire chews on a french fry, thinking. This sounds like textbook depression, something he knows very, very well, and every instinct in him is screaming to pull out the DBT cards and have at it. But useful though that might be in the best of all possible worlds, he’s not sure if Combeferre is in a place to accept the help. It might be best to keep things more concrete in this case, at least until the worst of the storm has passed. 

“I know what we can do,” he says. Enjolras perks up, looking up at him with big, trusting eyes.

“What?”

“We’ll try to help him get through this in a practical way. That means, no psychoanalysis or anything yet, just some good old-fashioned housework. We’ll get him to shower, and make some food for him, and help him work on his presentation for tomorrow, and maybe after that, he’ll feel better enough to tell us what’s going on.”

“But how can we make him do that? I already tried.”

“Yeah, but you’re just one person. Let’s see if he can withstand the force of both of us together.”

Enjolras cracks a little smile, though his forehead is still scrunched, and he’s pouting out his lower lip. “Okay.”

“Hey.” Grantaire reaches across the table and chucks him under the chin. “Come on, don’t worry. It’ll be okay. We’re here for him, and we won’t let him fall too deeply into this.”

“Okay.” Enjolras seizes his hand and kisses the back of it, just a cute little peck. “I trust you.”

He’s just too precious and cute, and he’s never not going to make Grantaire’s heart feel like it’s going to fall out. Grantaire smiles at him and squeezes his hand.

“Come on, let’s get this food to go. We can figure out what we’re doing while we drive back to your place.”

As if on cue, Musichetta appears with a couple of styrofoam boxes and helps them pack everything up. She’s quiet for a second, chewing her lip, but then she turns to Grantaire and sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Take good care of him, yeah?”

“We will.”

“And tell him we all love him. If he wants visitors, my shift here ends at 8, and I can be over at any time after that.”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks, ‘Chetta.”

“Good.” Musichetta hugs them both, and turns to go. Before she leaves for the kitchen, though, she turns over her shoulder and gives them a thumbs-up. “You got this.”

“We got this,” says Enjolras, as they head back to Grantaire’s car. “I heard the saying somewhere, ‘depression is a tough bitch, but so are you.’ And I think that’s true. ‘Ferre is a tough bitch.”

“And we are, too,” agrees Grantaire, trying not to laugh at how carefully Enjolras says the word _bitch_. “We’re going to make everything— well, if not _right_ , then at least semi-bearable.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply to this, but he reaches over the gearshift and briefly squeezes Grantaire’s hand, and the emotion he puts into that one touch is more than enough. Grantaire smiles at him and starts the car. They have some work to do.

—

“What sort of food do you like when you’re feeling bad?” asks Enjolras, peering at a zucchini like it holds the answer to all his questions. They’re at the grocery store, picking up some ingredients to make Combeferre a healthy and hopefully appealing dinner. Grantaire takes the zucchini out of his hand and puts it in the basket.

“I like alcohol. But we should make him something healthy. What about a vegetable soup?”

“With what protein?”

“I don’t know. Chicken? Fish? What does he like?”

“Let’s see what’s on sale,” says Enjolras, ever the pragmatist. He takes Grantaire’s hand and leads him to the meat aisle, stopping only to get a cup of coffee from the sample bar. Then, he begins to walk up and down the aisle, like some kind of royal prince observing his subjects. 

“This halibut is on sale,” says Grantaire eventually, seeing that he’s overwhelmed with choices. “We could make a fisherman’s stew type thing.”

“Ooh.” Enjolras picks up the halibut and puts it in the basket. “What else goes in a fisherman’s stew? Shellfish, right?”

“Yeah, I think clams and shrimp, and we could probably put some other stuff in there, too.”

“Okay!” Enjolras pokes through the selection of frozen fish until he comes up with a bag of lobster. “What about this?”

“Sure. Let’s get it.”

They continue shopping, and maybe they look a little ridiculous walking back and forth all over the store in the most disorganized fashion, but they’re having fun, and that’s the important thing. Grantaire loves shopping with Enjolras; the boy really knows how to make even the most mundane things interesting.

“Did you know that white bread used to be the fancy bread?” he asks musingly, weighing a bread boule in one hand and a bag of focaccia in the other. “Wheat bread used to be more normal. But now white bread is considered unhealthy, and everyone wants whole-grains.”

Grantaire has vaguely known this, but now that he’s thinking about it, it does seem strange. “I wonder what changed?”

“I’m not sure. I wonder if it was because the industrial revolution made it so much easier to manufacture white bread, so the supply increased, and the rich people wanted to be different, so they decided to eat the less common wheat bread.”

“You’re a rich people. Do you want to be different?”

“Not really,” says Enjolras, making a face. “But wheat bread really is healthier.”

“Should I take this to mean that we should buy some for Combeferre?”

Enjolras puts the bread boule back and tosses the focaccia in the basket instead. “No, this tastes better. Let’s get this.”

Grantaire has to laugh at his determination. “All right.”

When they check out, Enjolras gets ID’d for the wine they buy, and is very indignant about it. He keeps asking Grantaire how old he looks, and won’t accept any vague answer. Finally, reluctantly, Grantaire tells him that he looks like a teenager.

“It’s a good thing,” he says, as Enjolras pouts. “Later in life, you’ll be grateful for your youthful looks. I mean, look at me. I wish I looked five years younger than I do.”

“Still,” Enjolras grumbles, but he looks a little happier.

Once they get to the apartment, Grantaire unloads the groceries, while Enjolras goes to the bedroom to see if Combeferre is awake yet. He’s not, as Enjolras reports when he comes back to the kitchen, looking for backup.

“Can you help me wake him and convince him to get up? I feel like this is a two-person job.”

So both of them go into the bedroom, where Combeferre is indeed still lying in bed, stretched out and snoozing. Enjolras goes up to him and hesitantly shakes him by the shoulder.

“‘Ferre?”

“It’s time to wake up,” says Grantaire, maybe a little louder than he needs to. Combeferre stirs, and finally opens his eyes. He doesn’t look happy at all.

“What do you want?”

“We want you to get up and have a shower,” Grantaire tells him. “And then maybe move to the couch, and eat the food we’re going to cook for you.”

Combeferre groans and presses his face into the pillow. “Too much work.”

“You can do it,” says Enjolras. “Here, we’ll help you. Can you sit up?”

“No.”

Grantaire grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him up into a sitting position. “Yes, you can.”

“Now, do you think you can shower?” asks Enjolras. “If not, can you at least brush your teeth and wash your face?”

Combeferre groans again, long and loud. He sounds completely put-out. “I don’t want to do anything at all.”

“You have to pick,” says Enjolras. “We’ll help you.”

“You’ll help me shower?”

“If you want.”

“No, I don’t want that. Fine, I’ll brush my teeth. But that’s it.”

“Can you change clothes, too?”

“You’re really pushing your luck, aren’t you?”

Enjolras goes to the dresser and pulls out some random clothes. It looks like a boxing shirt from Bahorel, one of Musichetta’s old skirts, and a pair of mismatched knee-high socks. It’s not a cute outfit, but Enjolras holds it up enticingly. 

“See? You can do it. Just one step at a time.”

“Ugh.”

“Here, I’ll help you.”

Enjolras comes over to the bed, clothes in hand, and tugs on Combeferre’s shirt until reluctantly, he pulls it off. Then, he holds up Bahorel’s shirt, and tries to fit it over his head.

“I can do it,” says Combeferre eventually, once it becomes obvious that Enjolras’s efforts are only hindering the process. He puts the shirt on, then, as if having gained momentum, changes into the skirt and socks as well. “There. Happy?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras sweetly. He kisses him on the cheek, then grabs his hand and pulls on it. “Come on, now you have to brush your teeth.”

“Fine.”

Combeferre gets up out of the bed with a long sigh, and staggers towards the bathroom. His legs probably feel weird from staying in one place all day. Enjolras stands still for a minute, indecisive, then follows him into the bathroom.

“Can you start cooking?” he calls over his shoulder. “We’ll be right out.”

“Sure.”

Grantaire goes to the kitchen and finishes unpacking the groceries. They really got a lot of them. Possibly too many, in fact. Oh well— it’s not like Enjolras and Combeferre can’t use them later. He starts to chop the tomatoes and shallots, and once that’s done, starts heating up the butter in the frying pan. Hopefully, the aroma will be delicious enough to attract Combeferre out.

It seems to work, because not too long after, Combeferre and Enjolras come into the living room. Enjolras looks very pleased with himself, and Combeferre looks less so, but he’s still looking better than he did fifteen minutes ago, and that’s something to be grateful for. He goes over to the couch and lies down on it, and Enjolras puts a blanket over him.

“Can I get you some water?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll get you some water.” He skips over to the water filter and fills up a mug, and brings it over to where Combeferre is lying. “Here you go.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Yeah, but you have to stay hydrated. Otherwise, you’ll get a headache.”

“Fine.” Combeferre sits up and drinks the water in one long gulp. He hands the empty mug to Enjolras, scowling. “Happy?”

“Yes. Now, can I get you anything else? Oh— I know.”

And with this, he turns and runs into the bedroom, not even bothering to put the mug down first. He comes back less than a minute later carrying one of his stuffed animals (Grantaire thinks this one is named Patria, but he’s not sure), which he tucks under Combeferre’s arm. 

“There.”

He’s too cute for this world. Even Combeferre seems to think so. He hugs the plushie tight, looking like he never wants to let go.

“Thank you.”

Enjolras smiles and pats him, and comes into the kitchen, where he finally sets down the empty water mug, and gets up into Grantaire’s personal space like a curious cat.

“What are you doing? How can I help?”

“You can start making the salad.”

“Okay!”

They work companionably together for a little while, chatting about how best to cook the stew (the recipe says to cook the fish separately, which Enjolras says feels wrong, and Grantaire is unable to convince him otherwise), until finally, Combeferre sits up on the couch and asks if they need any help.

“I can fry the tomatoes or something.”

The tomatoes are already done, simmering away in the white wine sauce, but Grantaire calls him into the kitchen anyway, reasoning that the more he can manage to do, the better. He puts a knife into his hand and pushes him towards Enjolras’s salad station, telling him to help cut up some of the vegetables.

“You can cut the onion and save Enjolras from crying.”

Combeferre obediently starts to cut up the onion, and Enjolras, always wanting to be helpful, lights a candle next to him to stop his eyes from tearing up. Then, apparently pleased with the ambience, he lights several more and places them in various locations around the kitchen. Grantaire will have to make sure someone blows them all out later. 

“I finished the onion,” says Combeferre. “What else should I cut?”

Grantaire hands him a box of cherry tomatoes. “Here, cut some of these in halves. And then maybe some of that mozzarella in the fridge.”

Combeferre nods and goes to work. It’s really amazing how tractable he can be. If the doctor thing doesn’t work out, he could find a viable career as a sous chef.

“What kind of dressing do you want?” asks Enjolras after finishing with his candles. He starts to poke through the cabinet, looking for oil and vinegar. “We have ranch and Thousand Island in the fridge, but I feel like this might be better with a simple vinaigrette. What do you think?”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. What do you want, red wine vinegar and olive oil, or rice vinegar and sesame oil?”

“You’re so bossy,” says Combeferre long-sufferingly, but he doesn’t seem particularly annoyed. “Red wine vinegar and olive oil, then.”

“Okay!”

Enjolras starts to mix up the dressing, asking Combeferre for his opinion at every turn until finally he takes the bowl and finishes mixing it himself. Enjolras beams like this was his plan (it probably was) and comes over to check on the stew. 

“How is it looking?”

“It’s pretty much done. We just have to wait for the clams to open, but that shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Do you want to warm up some bread?”

“Sure. How much do you want?”

“Let’s be real, I could eat that whole loaf by myself. But I won’t. Give me two pieces to start with?”

“Sounds good.”

In barely any time at all, everything has come together, and dinner is sitting pretty on the table, looking absolutely delicious. Grantaire brings the leftover wine from the stove and pours out three moderate glasses, and Enjolras opens up Spotify and starts playing some relaxing indie pop. Combeferre doesn’t seem to know what to do, until Enjolras takes him by the hand and sits him down at the table.

“Allow me to serve you, Monsieur.” He dishes up generous portions of food for the three of them, then sits down himself, legs curled up underneath him. “Let’s eat?”

Grantaire nods. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner turns out to be delicious. At first, Combeferre just picks at his food, but after awhile, his appetite seems to come back, and he eats two full bowls of stew. Enjolras is delighted with this, although clearly he’s trying not to show it, probably not wanting to make him feel awkward. But he smiles throughout the whole meal, glowing like the household angel.

Once they’re all done eating, Enjolras takes the dishes to the sink and starts washing them up, and Grantaire turns to Combeferre, who’s now looking a bit lost. 

“What do you want to do now? Are you up for working on your presentation a little bit, or do you want to relax?”

“I don’t know. I... maybe relax?”

“Sure. How about this— we’ll chill until Enjolras finishes the dishes. Then, he and I will look over your presentation for you, and if there’s anything majorly wrong, we can work on it, but if not, we’ll all just watch Netflix and call it a night.”

“It’s not that late.”

“That’s fine. You’re tired, right?”

Combeferre takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He really does look exhausted. “Yeah.”

“Good, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Combeferre and Grantaire settle onto the couch, leaving a space in the middle for Enjolras. They don’t talk much— Grantaire knows how tiring that can be on days like this— but the atmosphere is warm and comfortable, and everything feels just right.

When Enjolras is finished with the dishes (it takes awhile, because he insists on cleaning the whole kitchen as well), he comes over and launches himself into the space between Combeferre and Grantaire, curling up into a little ball of warmth. 

“Is your presentation on Google Docs?” he asks.

“Yeah.” 

Combeferre opens his phone and shares the document, making it so that no one has to get up and fetch a laptop. Enjolras and Grantaire read through the presentation together, occasionally asking for clarification about certain terms. It’s all very medical and technical, and Grantaire doesn’t understand much of it (he doesn’t think Enjolras does, either), but it’s well-put-together, and doesn’t seem to have any serious problems. 

“I think you’ll be fine with this,” Grantaire tells him, turning off his phone and haphazardly throwing it onto the coffee table. “You seem to have covered everything.”

“It’s not too dry?”

“It does go into a lot of detail,” says Enjolras. “I think that’s a good thing, though. And if people seem bored, you can always change it on the fly.”

“I’m not the public speaker that you are,” says Combeferre. Enjolras hurries to pat him and take his hand.

“You’re a great public speaker. You’re calm and self-assured, and you have poise. You’re going to do great.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Well, I think you will.”

“I do, too,” says Grantaire. “Don’t worry, man. You’re much more competent than you realize.”

Combeferre looks like he’s thinking about this deeply. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I seem like I know what I’m doing, but it’s all just an act. I don’t know anything.”

“I don’t think any of us do, really,” says Enjolras. “Adulthood is just fake-it-til-ya-make-it.”

“You’re barely an adult,” points out Combeferre. “It’s okay for you to be faking it. But I’m not as young as you. I should have it together by now.”

“Says who?”

“Says... well, me.”

Grantaire reaches across Enjolras to pat him on the shoulder. “I get you, dude. I feel the same way. But I think Enjolras is right, even though he’s just a little baby.”

Enjolras pinches him indignantly. “I am _not_ a little baby!”

“Really?” Combeferre looks up through hooded eyes. “You don’t think it’s just me being bad at life?”

“Not at all. You’re good at life, man. Look at all you’ve accomplished. You have your residency, you volunteer at a clinic and make people’s lives better for free, you teach kids on weekends, you have friends who love you, hell, you even have a houseplant that hasn’t died. You’re doing great.”

At this point, there’s a knock on the door, and Enjolras goes to open it. Musichetta comes in, holding a pink dim sum box. 

“I brought egg tarts,” she says. 

“Egg tarts?” Enjolras tugs on her sleeve, trying to get at the box. “Can I have some?”

“If Combeferre says you can.”

“You can,” says Combeferre. “But leave some for me this time, will you?”

Satisfied, Enjolras takes the box to the kitchen and starts plating tarts to bring out to the others. Once he does, he goes back to the kitchen (giving Musichetta his place on the couch) and starts making up some tea. 

“Is ginger okay?”

“Sure,” says Grantaire, when Musichetta and Combeferre both just shrug. They all sit back and wait, and within a few minutes, Enjolras brings them their cups. 

“I put honey in yours, ‘Ferre,” he says. “And I put a little bit in ‘Chetta’s, too. But none for Grantaire.”

Grantaire will always be impressed at how he memorizes the smallest details about his friends’ preferences, whether it’s how they take their tea, or how many pillows they prefer. He tends to play it off, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but he loves his friends a lot, and it’s obvious in the smallest things he does. Come to think of it, Combeferre is a lot like that, too.

“You’re a good friend,” he says around a bite of egg tart. Combeferre jerks in surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting to be commended. 

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s obvious. You’re always here for us, no matter what.”

“So, we want to be here for you, too,” says Musichetta. She pats him on the knee. “Can we help at all? Do you want to talk about anything?”

“I guess...” Combeferre pauses, thinking. “I guess I just feel like an imposter. I seem to have it all together, but I feel like I’m just fooling everyone. And I’m scared that everyone will hate me when they realize that I’m a fraud.”

“But why are you a fraud?” asks Enjolras. “I mean, it’s like Grantaire said earlier, you literally have friends and a job and volunteer work; it’s not like you’re faking any of that.”

“No, but... hmm. How to explain. I feel like everything I’ve done up to this point has just been luck. I got my job because they happened to like me. I volunteer because I happen to be in the right place at the right time. And all of you... I don’t know how I got lucky enough to have such wonderful friends, but I’m sure eventually you’ll realize that I’m not...”

“Not what?”

“Not good enough.”

At this, Enjolras makes an indignant sound of reproach. He takes Combeferre’s tea and tarts and sets them on the coffee table, then climbs into his lap and wraps his arms around him tightly. 

“I love you, ‘Ferre,” he says. “I love you so much. You’re my best friend, and I would never, ever think that you’re not good enough. You are who you are, and that’s the best, it’s so good, and I know all of our friends would say the same.”

“We do,” agrees Musichetta. “We love you, Combeferre. I know today is a bad day, and I’m sorry, but please know that we’re here for you no matter what.”

“Even though I’m just a fake good person?”

“You’re not a fake good person,” Grantaire tells him. “You’re _actually_ good. Like, legit. Besides, you all tolerate me even though I’m an asshole, so it’s not like we would ever get tired of you just because you weren’t the Maximum Saint for one day.”

No one argues that Grantaire isn’t an asshole, which is pretty funny, actually. Instead, Musichetta and Enjolras make similar sounds of agreement.

“You’re wonderful,” says Musichetta. “I know it might be hard to see it right now, but we love you for who you are, not for who we think you are. Does that make sense? I’m trying to say that we accept you as-is.”

“It makes sense, don’t worry.” Combeferre’s voice is wobbly. “Thank you so much, all of you. It means more to me than I can say.”

“You don’t have to say. We feel it in our hearts.” Enjolras pats Combeferre on the chest. “Right here.”

For the first time all day, Combeferre laughs, just a weak chuckle, but it makes the whole room light up. “Enjolras, that’s the wrong side.”

“It’s metaphorical,” says Enjolras with great dignity. He nestles closer, purring like a cat. “We love you so much. And we’re not going to leave you.”

“We won’t,” says Grantaire. He reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. “Things might be dark right now, but we’ll stay with you until they’re light again. That’s a promise.”

Combeferre buries his face in Enjolras’s hair. His shoulders are shaking, but Grantaire knows it’s not bad crying. It’s probably more like cathartic crying. He scoots closer and wraps an arm around his shoulders, and Musichetta does the same. They stay there like that, just supporting him, until he’s stopped shaking, and has sat up with clear eyes and a straight face once again.

“Thank you,” he says. “I have to admit, I still don’t feel good, but I feel much better than I did before. And it’s all thanks to you.”

“And to you,” says Grantaire, unwilling to take all the credit. “You worked hard to get yourself up today, and to do everything that you did. That’s no small feat, and I’m so proud of you.”

For a second, it seems like Combeferre might cry again. He doesn’t, but only because Enjolras goes to say something, and hiccups instead, and it’s such a cute sound that they all laugh. 

“I love you,” Combeferre tells him. “And Musichetta and R, I love you both, too. I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” says Musichetta. “Just knowing you’re feeling better is more than enough.”

“You’re amazing,” says Enjolras, in a burst of air (clearly, he’d been holding his breath to make his hiccups go away). “I’m so proud of you, too. You make me a better person just by me knowing you, and I’m so lucky that you’re in my life.”

This is so sweet and so true that Musichetta and Grantaire have to join the cuddle pile, and from then on, everything is fluffy warmth and affection, and Combeferre eventually goes to sleep with Enjolras sitting on his lap.

“Aww, he’s tired,” says Musichetta. “Come on, R, let’s carry him to bed.”

So Grantaire and Musichetta pick him up between them and haul him into the bedroom, where they tuck him in. He doesn’t wake up the whole time. 

“I’ll stay in here with him,” says Enjolras, climbing into the bed as well. “I can be his teddy bear.”

As if agreeing with this in his sleep, Combeferre reaches out and grabs hold of Enjolras, tucking him under his chin and spooning him from behind. Enjolras coos in satisfaction, and flaps his hand at Grantaire to turn the lights off.

“It’s time to sleep.”

Grantaire goes over to the bed and kisses Combeferre on the forehead and Enjolras on the mouth, and makes sure the blanket is wrapped around the securely. 

“I love you both,” he says. “Goodnight.”

He and Musichetta go out of the bedroom, leaving the door open, and settle back down on the couch. By unspoken agreement, they’ve decided to stay over tonight, as if to physically keep any lingering darkness at bay. Musichetta finds Enjolras’s laptop and starts up something on Netflix, and Grantaire finishes off the rest of Combeferre’s egg tarts. Today may have been a roller coaster, but Grantaire knows as sure as anything that there’s no place he’d rather be.


End file.
